I had just gotten the security deposit back from my first apartment when tickets went on sale for the 2009 PGA Championship. All I could think about was how this was going to be my first chance to watch the greatest golfer who ever played.

Funny story. I out drove Tiger Woods this morning.

I love Tiger Woods and I hate Tiger Woods. I don’t care that he cheated on his wife. As a golfer I recognize a level of talent unparalleled in the history of the game. But I will never, EVER forgive him for taking the International away from Denver. So lets lay it on the table, I was rooting for tiger, but I wasn’t gonna cry if a 37 year old Korean stomped on his throat.

I bought the tickets, and after a summer of waiting I was on my way east, east to Minneapolis, to Hazeltine, east to watch the greatest golfers in the world compete for a fabled trophy at one of the most heralded golf courses in the country. My father and I decided it would be prudent to rent a car so that we could see the real America, the middle west.

Our first day’s journey brought us to beautiful La Vista Nebraska, on the outskirts of Omaha. It was our destination because it is home to Cabellas, but believe it or not eastern Nebraska has more to offer than shotguns and cammo hats. Pizza Gourmet was one of the best pizza places I have ever eaten at period. Read that sentence again, literally the best Pizza, not in Nebraska but in my life. The only plausible explanation is that a family in the witness protection program owns the restaurant. Sorry to out them but check out the deals they have of drafts and don’t leave with out trying the meatball pizza (MEATBALLS, on PIZZA… crazy I know).

My father and I foolishly budgeted 45 minutes to shop and Cabellas and after spending our time allotment plus three hours and fifteen minutes shouldering rifles and deciding between camouflage and hunter’s safety orange we again went East. East to Des Moines and the Iowa State fair. Lets draw on some Iowa State Fair stereotypes, mullets, pork chop on a stick, giant hogs, butter Neil Armstrong, jailbait and hot beef sundae.

I would love to continue but I think you get the long and short of it. Ok indulge me; I ate a corn dog, pork cutlet, fried Oreos, fried Snickers, cheese curds, a turkey leg and a bucket full of cantaloupe. My hair is now short in the front and long in the back, my tee shirt has a tuxedo painted on the front. In the immortal words of Chris Rock, “If a girl tell you she 20 and look like she 16 she 12.” I’m not telling you to avoid this state fair, but keep a first aid kit handy and your worst-case scenario in mind. Remember drinking will lead to fried food, which will no doubt lead to more fried food.

After the state fair and a night spent on my friends floor dreaming of combines, pork cutlet and Tangermister (exactly what it sounds like). Our Hostess woke me up for a brisk run through the Farmer’s Insurance campus in West Des Monies. Besides dripping fryer grease from all of my pores the experience was bland yet extremely pleasant. Highly recommended as atonement for anyone who has committed the deadly sin of gluttony while posing as a Faricuda.

If we could have, I am sure we would have stayed in Des Moines, the city of breaded meat and bearded men forever. As all good things must come to an end we said our good byes and headed east. East to the setting sun, east to our destination of Minneapolis, east to the promise land of the PGA Championship. On our way out of town we made a pit stop at the Ankney diner, a miss it if you blink breakfast joint on the garden level of a run down hotel. As you would expect from a nondescript dinner, anchoring a hotel to the fertile Iowa soil, the food was incredible. While it fell short of the Mafia Magic cooked into every pie at Pizza Plus, the corn beef hash was some of the best I’ve ever had, and lets just say I’m no novice when it comes to CBH.

Flash forward to our arrival. We had been watching almost nonstop coverage of the PGA championship on ESPN all week so when we finally got to the Minnie Apple the only thing we could do was give a little spanking to our main man whitey. Our GPS directed us to the beautiful and totally unobtainable Olympic Hills Golf Club. We stared at this masterpiece through a 12 foot tall wrought iron gate for just long enough to think, “Ah to be a wealthy Minnesotan,” before we saddled up and rode. If you have the connections to play this course you don’t have to be told by a (bad) travel writer to make the tee time.

After an admonishing our GPS directed us to Braemar Golf Course, a municipal track just a few blocks from Olympic Hills but miles away in atmosphere. The friendly staff charged us something like 30 dollars to play the Castle and the Hays courses and while the architecture on this 45 year-old parkland layout wasn’t much to speak of the course was in incredible shape. Not incredible shape for a 27 hole Muni that sees 400 rounds every day from late April to Mid October, just incredible shape. I would recommend it to anyone passing through the twin cities on their way to Whistling Straits this year.

After hacking what appeared to be the first divots of 2009 (on Aug 10…) into Bremar we took a tip from a local and headed to Salut a French restaurant located either ironically or not so ironically on Edinas famed France Street. There was almost an hour wait for a table but the menu looked incredible and the price was right. Good things come to those who wait. Our steaks were prepared perfectly and served with delicious Pommes Frites, (literally translated to freedom fries,) lavishly drenched in butter and garlic. The gazpacho was to die for, full of its vegetable flavor and just spicy enough to keep things interesting. And since most people have had their fill of food writing on the subject of Creme Brule check this out; Ceme Brule? Fucking awesome.

Full of memories of a great golf round and sensibly portioned new French cuisine we checked into the Minneapolis Shearaton. ESPN had its coverage of the PGA going all night long, so while I didn’t sleep much that night I did know the parings I wanted to see in the morning. Seven o’clock rolled around and we raced our rented 300 M at its maximum speed to Canterbury Downs, a racing track and card club located in beautiful Shakopee MN. From there a bus took us down a two-lane road to a windswept Chaska MN home of Hazeltine National Golf Club and the 91^st PGA Championship.

This was Saturday Aug 15 2009. The first pairing that we followed was Freddy Couples and Jim Furyk. Were the PGA to give an award for the players who have aged the least gracefully these two men would be a lock. It was great to these legends up close but they were clearly not the players of my youth. Maybe the senior tour should analyze appearance as well as age and allow one “ringer” each year. He can spot players aged 50 and older three a side and make things more interesting for everyone. Couples hit the half-century mark last year so Furyk has the position locked up till 2020.

Some other notable happenings from Saturday: Kevin Na was parried with Phil Mickelson, who was yammering like a Sunday Hacker. Na looked focused while Mickelson seemed to be concentrating on his watch, billfold and crocodile shoes. If what I’m suspecting is true lefty took a beating on the skins game that day. He probaly took a beating three ways on the Nassau too. Who plays with a watch?

2009 Major champions, Angel Cabrera (Masters) and Stewart Sink (Open Championship) were paired together. The two men were playing like a two-ball squeezing in a quick nine after molesting the sheriff’s daughter. I think these guys wanted off the course before anyone realized that they burgled the brand new notches in their belts.

Rich Beem, the champion of the PGA championship last time it was held at Hazeltine, slogged through his 18 holes like a lazy robot. It broke my heart to see a man who was the most exciting player in the game in just eight short years ago playing like Judge Smails from Caddyshack. Beamer, if your reading this drink a cup of coffee. Now close your fucking stance. What happened to the dude in Bud Sweat and Tees?

I didn’t get to see eventual champion YE Yang tee it up on Saturday but I did see him briefly on the thirteenth tee box. His caddy opened a giant cooler to reveal picked over bottles of Gatorade, water and an untouched case of canned Tropicana Lemonade; leaving everyone in the gallery pondering the same thing, lemonade? Just seconds later Yang, who speaks no English, pointed at a can of lemonade, his caddie tossed it over and Yang proceeded to chug it like a frat boy embarrassing himself at the university course.

Since I don’t speak Korean, and didn’t fight the gallery to watch him finish the hole, I can only assume that Yang mused, “the best part of golf is getting fucked up, right,” before sending his ball rocketing down the fairway. Yang had what can only be described as the biggest smile I have ever seen on his face. This is a man playing with house money three strokes down in a major championship on Saturday. I should have known it then, this is a man who has what it takes to win the whole thing.

VJ Singh… unraveled. Not fun to watch. Which brings us to the main event VJ’s unfortunate paring, El Tigre. You philandering son of a bitch. As you imagine I didn’t get to see much of the guy. The gallerys were UNRREAL. Short of a mini skirt and a cocktail tray, the best way to watch Tiger up close is to pick a spot five holes ahead of where he is playing now and post up by the ropes. Good thing I figured this out when I was watching him tee off on 17. There was no hope. Pappy and I called it a day.

At this point, the good people of the Professional Golfers Association Graciously bussed us from the golf course to the casino. Brilliant. The place was packed. After a solid four hours at the black jack table daddy and I some what drunkenly took our winnings uptown to a trendy restaurant in uptown Minneapolis named Chino Latino, (great thing about Minnestoa number 5134, being greeted by a sigh that says “Warning, driving under the influence of alcohol will be punished by a $500 fine OR 90 days in jail.)

The juice was worth the squeeze. At first glance Chino Latino was loud, and bright. We arrived 45 minutes late for our reservation and our hostess brought us to the punisment table, right in the center of all the action. Though I couldn’t hear my father from across the table, or myself think, I fell in love with the place when a food runner, privy to my staring brought a whole suckling pig to our table. He left it there in jest and returned just before I could carve out a bite but the gesture was appreciated.

We ordered raw slices of Kobe beef, served with a hot stone and cooked to order by the same two famished cave men who had spent the day watching other people play golf and betting that dealers cards were either worth much more or a little less than the cards he we held. The Chicken Satay was moist, tender and served with a flavorful jerk an peanut sauces. Our fried rice came out layered with Guinea Pig meat and Shrimp, a layering of complex flavors that kept my mouth watering and my hands shoveling mounds of rice onto my plate long after I was full. It seemed only right that we order fried Snickers for desert. Breaded and flash fried candy bar wasn’t quite as good as the one we got at the fair, but for an upscale downtown restaurant? Not bad. I give Chino Latino three thumbs up. Put in some earplugs and don’t be cautious when you order.

This brings us to Sunday. I decided to indulge my father by spending the morning following around Boo Weekley, his favorite golfer. This time was not entirely wasted. Do you ever wonder what happened to Oklahoma basketball star and NBA washout Big Country Reeves? I found him, on Weekly’s bag. Well its either Bryant Reeves or Lurch Adams. I’m leaning towards Reeves because he spoke some backwoods dialect that was all but unintelligible to everyone but Weekly and the pack of heavily made up cougars that followed Boo around cooing “he’s so nice” (fact) and “you know he stopped chewing” (crap).

The language barrier didn’t stop Weekly from being what I would describe as overly chatty with playing partner Kevin Na. This is the second day I followed Na and the first I got to see him play 18 holes. The kid is a rocket on rails. Whole lotta talent. Through eight holes he had 4 birdies three bogeys and a par. He calmed down to shoot two under and seriously impress me.

While following Na and Weekly I ran into Angel Cabrera and Kenny Perry. No love lost between these two men. On six tee box Cabrera obliviously offered Perry and his caddie a stick of gum. Perry, doing his best to stare daggers into Cabrera looked disgusted. When Perry’s caddie reached out to accept Perry slapped his hand away and muttered something. With my limited lip reading skills I can only assume it began with Mother Fucker and ended with a demand to see a Visa or perhaps a clever quip about banging a ball off a tree to win the masters.

As hilarious as it would have been to watch the remaining 12 holes unfold today wasn’t about old grudges, it was about new ones. Starting the day one back YE Yang had pared hole eight to Tigers Birdie was all square at the turn. He waited until the 14^th hole, a drivable par 4 to make a move. Unable to reach the green with a driver Yang found himself in the rough to the right of and just short of the pin. After standing over the ball for what seemed like too short a period of time Yang slashed his lob wedge through the grass, striking the ball perfectly and following through into tigers heart. This is where the bleeding begins.

Flash forward to hole 16, the next time I was able to catch a glimpse of the pair. 16 bordered by Lake Chaska on the right and meandering creek to the left. The blind tee shot must be placed perfectly in the center of the fairway to avoid any kind of water. Both Tiger and Yang landed in position A. The green is a peninsula, jutting into lake Chaska and connected to land only in the front. I had been staking out this hole for most of the afternoon and of course noticed that a strong left to right wind had lead most golfers to balloon their second shot over the grandstand left of the green so that the wind would carry the ball onto the right side of the green, instead of into lake Chaska. Coming into the final paring, no one had challenged the flag for the entire day.

Yang was away, his ball coming to a stop some 20 yards behind the towering tee shot of tiger. He stepped up to his ball, stepped back. Stepped up to his ball again then to the delight of everyone but his caddie hit a screaming five iron draw over lake Chaska and back into the wind, directly at the flag. The ball just got over the lake on the right side of the green and skidded to a stop some three feet from the pin. Presumably after throwing up all over himself tiger ballooned his ball over the grandstand and onto the left side of the green. Yang sank his gimmie, Tiger two putted from 30 feet. The wound had become fatal.

18 long uphill par four. Green guarded on the left side by a monstrous cottonwood tree and the biggest meanest bunker you’ve ever seen. Pin placement back left. Yang with the box, doesn’t pass go, doesn’t collect 200 dollars, directly to jail. Right behind the Cottonwood tree. Sensing weakness tiger slaps a huge drive right down the middle.

Yang is behind a bunker that is guarded by a tree. The green doesn’t even come into play here. He pulls a four iron hybrid, perhaps thinking about drawing the ball over the grandstand to somewhere near the green or into the grandstand for a free drop. At least that’s what he should have been thinking, but those thoughts never entered his head. YE Yang lined up at the cottonwood tree, closed his eyes (he had to) and swung out of his shoes. The ball cleared the tree, cleared the bunker almost cleared the green before catching the very edge of it and came back on a rope. Six feet from the pin.

Tiger Woods had been euthanized. In a daze he put his ball 20 feet from the pin and two putted. Three Down. A par to Yangs birdie. David hath smote the philistine.

After giving back all of the previous nights winnings and so much more at the horse race held that evening I was left to reflect on the whole thing. This was a pre cocktail waitress Tiger. He put himself in a position to win before gagging when approached by an aggressive competitor unimpressed by his mystique. It wasn’t till after that I realized that the tournament ended with the perfect outcome for residents of South Korea and Colorado. Perhaps tiger will think twice before he steals a golf tournament from the greatest state in the union.

If I make it out to the 92^nd PGA championship at Whistling Straights I believe that I will fly because nothing can top this years ever. But if you make the pilgrimage by car then good luck and god speed. Weather you use this as a guide or not I promise you will not regret the decision. Like an Oreo cookie the sweetest part of America lies in its center.